


The Worthy Partner

by spectral_musette



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Mandalore, happiness au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectral_musette/pseuds/spectral_musette
Summary: Set in an AU in which Duchess Satine Kryze asks Obi-Wan Kenobi to stay on Mandalore with her (before The Phantom Menace). The couple attends an official function on Satine’s homeworld a few months after their marriage. Satine's POV. Spicy food, a few bitter memories, but mostly sweet feelings.





	The Worthy Partner

            “How are you enjoying the meal?”

            Satine glared down her officious host, the Minister of Arts and Culture of Kalevala, but Obi-Wan merely nodded. “Your spices are extremely flavorful,” he complimented.

            “Be sure to try the _tiingilar_ with the sauce.”

            He obligingly took a spoonful from the serving dish onto his plate. Satine tried to cast a warning glance in his direction and refilled his goblet with the cold _ulik_ milk from the pitcher.

            She watched his face turn crimson as he tried a bite, but he smiled pleasantly. “Thank you for pointing it out.”

            He did, however, empty his goblet quickly.

            “Are you all right?” she whispered, leaning close as the Minister moved to the next table of dignitaries. “That stuff will peel the paint off a starship hull.”

            “No harm done. Hazing the Offworlder is to be expected, isn’t it?”

            She let out a hiss of disapproval. “They’re _deliberately_ trying to humiliate you.”

            “Let them. I’ve had far less palatable meals than overspiced Mandalorian cuisine.” He dipped his bread into the offending sauce and smiled his most charming smile at their host, who was glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously to observe Obi-Wan’s response to the spicy delicacy.

            “I know. I’ve eaten Qui-Gon’s cooking too.”

            A wistful shadow passed over Obi-Wan’s handsome countenance, and they gripped each other’s hands under the table.

            “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I miss him too. He promised to visit soon.”

            “No doubt the Council is keeping him busy.”

            Though she hadn’t managed to get him to talk about it, she suspected that there were moments when Obi-Wan felt miserably homesick, not just for his former Master, but all his friends and mentors and for the community of the Jedi Temple. This was not the time to try to discuss it, though. “Just don’t let the Minister goad you into gulping the _tihaar_ ,” she warned, changing the subject and trying to distract him from falling into introspective melancholy.

            “Don’t think I can stomach it?”

            “No, I just hate the stuff, and I don’t want to taste it on you later.”

            “Fair enough,” he replied, laughing softly and squeezing her hand before releasing it.

            Perhaps not _that_ much later, depending on how long etiquette demanded they remain at the Minister’s gala. She and Obi-Wan had been husband and wife for a few months now, and the touch of his hand and light of a smile in his eyes still made her heart quicken – as she happily suspected they always would.

            The Minister stood from his table, raising his arms to announce his intention to address the guests. The room quieted as everyone put down their flatware to listen attentively.

            “Before dessert is served, I wonder if the Duchess would be so kind as to grace our company with the performance of a traditional dance.”

            The orchestra struck up the opening measures of a familiar tune, and Satine’s heart sank.

            _Ruusaanyc Riduur_ , the Worthy Partner.

            She _hated_ this dance. She remembered learning it as a girl, practicing with her sister until they knew the complex steps by heart. But the childhood memories were overshadowed by the few times she had been asked to dance it publicly with a would-be suitor, under her father’s watchful gaze. The young warriors who’d courted her in those not-so-distant days had been ambitious, vicious men, interested only in clan alliances and winning her father’s favor. And after her father’s death…

            For a moment, the orchestra seemed to thin to a badly tuned mandoviol drunkenly meandering through the notes, the elegant hall to dim to the ramshackle war camp where she’d once been held prisoner by a warlord with aspirations bigger than his arsenal, a boy no older than herself, stinking of _tihaar_ as he held her by the chin.

            _You might be_ dar _’_ manda _, but you’re almost pretty enough for it not to matter. Bet your clan would be grateful if I’d lower myself to marry you_.

            Satine tried to banish the unpleasant memory as well as the sickening one of the Protectors’ retaliation when they had rescued her shortly thereafter. She took a deep breath, rallying her wits to counter the Minister’s latest onslaught of social warfare.

            “Perhaps,” he pressed, taking advantage of her brief silence, “if your consort is not familiar with the steps, I might find you another partner.”

            Before she could voice her outrage at the suggestion that a married woman perform this particular dance at an official function with anyone but her own spouse, Obi-Wan stood, grasping her hand and leading her from the table to the open floor at the center of the hall.

            For a moment she thought he was leading her out, refusing to put up with further insult – the implication was _plain_ , that if her consort did not participate in the traditional dance, he was not a _worthy partner_ – but he stopped in front of the Minister’s table.

            “Don’t try to bluff your way through this,” she warned quietly, a heavy knot of dread in her stomach. Performing it badly might be worse than refusing to participate.

            “I won’t,” he promised, the hint of a dimple creasing his cheek. “Trust me.”

            Of course, she always did.

            And he might’ve been a little stiff and nervous, held her hands a little too tightly, but he trod the steps precisely, even catching the subtle shift in the way they clasped their hands to indicate that the dancers were vowed to each other rather than merely courting.

            “How…” she breathed in wonderment when he briefly grasped her close.

            “In the usual way. Took lessons.” He broke his concentration a moment to favor her with a smile, and she cursed his dimples for almost making her trip. “I’d hoped to surprise you under rather better circumstances.”

            “I didn’t know you could dance at all,” she confessed.

            “How do you suppose they start teaching us saber forms in the Temple? Let a bunch of toddlers loose with laser swords?”

            “When you put it like _that_ …”

            More couples began to fill the floor, and Obi-Wan relaxed a little as they were no longer the center of attention.

            Satine took a moment to admire him, graceful and lithe as he gained confidence in the movements of the dance. Most days he wore his simplified version of the Royal Guard’s uniform, but she’d managed to coax him into a few bits of finery for the occasion – _please don’t make it easier for them to pretend to mistake you for my bodyguard_ this _time._ He looked very dashing in a tunic of fine-spun silk instead of his preferred coarse linen, with a smart half cape over one shoulder, a pair of bright silver vambraces, and a wide belt of intricately tooled leather.

            She was also feeling rather grateful for his cool temper under the current trying circumstances. Her Mandalorian disposition was apt to spit fire when delivered insults and slights. He tolerated them with such grace that it left her enemies baffled most of the time. He had a way of making them aware that he was on to their game and refusing to engage in it. She knew some of them were foolish enough to doubt his courage, but the wiser ones never did; if a Mandalorian worth his beskar knew anything at all, it was how to size up a fellow warrior.

            And that was the final irony of her choice of a husband: she’s sworn she’d never marry a warrior, and yet here he was. He might not wear the _beskar’gam,_ he certainly didn’t share certain hard-headed Mando perspectives, and she knew that he abhorred violence in his heart, but he still dealt it out with skill and cunning when he had no other choice. Her eyes went to the lightsaber at his belt, and she thought of the would-be assassin he’d apprehended mere weeks ago, now in custody on Coruscant waiting for his trial. Someday, she hoped, that last resort would stop being necessary quite so often.

            The music slowed to a halt, and Obi-Wan brought her hand to his lips, bestowing a light, courtly kiss on her knuckles as he met her gaze. He could be difficult to read sometimes, so she always felt a swell of affection when he let her see his heart in his eyes: his eagerness to please and impress her, his unabashed devotion, and the ember-glow of his desire, no doubt brightly mirrored in her own eyes. They would both be very glad indeed to leave the party.

            “I’m sorry your plan was spoiled,” she said, smiling at the charming thought of him plotting a romantic setting for her, with music and dancing.

            “You _were_ surprised,” he conceded, grinning.

            “Very pleasantly. I admit it’s not a favorite of mine, so perhaps it’s better this way,” she said, lacing their fingers together as they headed back to their table. The crowd on the dance floor was moving slowly, a particularly large man Satine recognized as one of the Minister’s aides blocking their path. He glanced over his shoulder at them, and turned to give her a polite nod.

            “ _Dal’alor. **[i]**_ ”

            Apparently someone had been serving the _tihaar_ already, judging from the fumes on his breath and his odd choice of the rather archaic Mando’a translation of her title. She decided not to take issue with the way his slurred speech had shifted _dal_ towards _dar_ –“former” – changing the honorific into a rather ominious threat of deposition. However, it did put her on edge.

            “ _Gar veriduur redalur jate, **[ii]**_ ” he continued.

            Satine froze.

            It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard _be_ ’ _jetii veriduur_ – Jedi’s whore – flung at her before, but she hadn’t been expecting such crass invective in this ostensibly civilized setting, least of all under the guise of a compliment.

            “Perhaps your Mando’a is rusty,” he said, feigning surprise at her outraged expression. “I said your young husband dances well.”

            Another subtle shift in pronunciation, _vaar_ to _ver_ , plausible given his drunken state, but a stretch. Nor was simply “young” a very accurate translation of _vaar_ , carrying more of an implication of wanting size and maturity, as evidenced by the way the man was looming over Obi-Wan with a rather unpleasant smile.

            “You did _not_ ,” she spat back.

            “ _Vaar_ , I may be,” Obi-Wan replied, assessing the man coolly, “but wise enough to know it’s not always a disadvantage.”

            Satine let out a slow breath. Rely on Obi-Wan to handle the situation with diplomacy.

            “Unlike inebriation, which generally is,” he added.

            _Also_ rely on Obi-Wan to be too damn glib for his own good. She squeezed his hand and rolled her eyes.

            But then, perhaps Obi-Wan had read the situation correctly, as the jibe seemed to shift the big man’s drunken state to good humor rather than belligerence.

            “They said you were _mir’sheb_.” He landed a playful punch on Obi-Wan’s shoulder with one large hand. True enough, though Satine wouldn’t have put it in quite those terms – the linguistic connection between quick-wittedness and the anatomical region where the Mand’alor met the throne, as it were, had always mystified her.

            “More like _mesh’sheb, **[iii]**_ ” someone muttered in passing. Satine spun in the direction of the voice, but the floor was clearing out, making it impossible to tell who had delivered the rather crass compliment - also not untrue, Satine had to admit, and patently obvious given the tailored fit of his trousers.

            “Did you follow all that?” she asked Obi-Wan as he pulled out her chair for her back at their table.

            “I think so. Vague threat to your sovereignty, calling me _your_ prostitute – which is a change, I suppose we can give him points for that – backpedaling and saying he meant to call me puny, and finally that I am apparently known to be a smart-ass, to use the Basic vernacular.” He ticked off the items on his fingers.

            “Oh, did you miss that last anonymous expression of admiration?”

            “Your admiration is the only sort that interests me,” he countered, grinning.

            “Consider it bestowed.”

            “Likewise. In all things, my love,” he told her sweetly, kissing her hand again.

            “I’m looking forward to expressing it more emphatically.”

            “I’m not sure how much emphasis this particular setting can tolerate.”

            “I daresay not much. Do you suppose we can leave yet?”

            “You’d know better than I.”

            By now, the guests were milling around the dessert tables and the wait staff was distributing alcohol freely.

            “Let’s risk it,” Satine said decidedly, running her fingertips over the back of his hand. “We’ve made more daring escapes.”

            “Better wait for the Royal Guards to make it to the dessert table, at least, or I won’t hear the end of it,” he advised with an apologetic, lop-sided smile.

            “An acceptable concession.”

            Fortunately, there was not much that would keep the Royal Guards from _uj_ cake, so the retinue was contentedly stuffed with the beloved confection and ready to leave in short order.

            While many in the government and the population at large remained dubious about her husband, it comforted Satine that Obi-Wan had at least found his footing with the group of Protectors who formed the Royal Guard. Juvenile as it seemed, after he’d shown them all up in swordplay and marksmanship, it had taken finding a martial art at which at least some of them could trounce him – Mandalorian kick-boxing – before they softened towards him. The captain had carefully reassigned anyone who was really hostile due to old prejudices, and those remaining formed a tight-knit group that treated Obi-Wan with respect and a kind of fondness. Despite leaving the Order, he was still _jetii_ , but he was their _jetii_. These days, they didn’t insult him any less, but it was done in much better humor.

            “A goddamned piece of cake is not so much to ask, after all, is it?” the captain inquired, helmet not quite concealing his amused expression.

            “We waited,” Satine protested. They must have been making quite a habit of leaving events early if this was an ongoing source of ribbing.

            “Never mind the captain,” his lieutenant chimed in, holding the heavy door to the hangar. “When cake is involved, he thinks with his stomach and forgets what it means to be young and in love and think with your…”

            Obi-Wan cleared his throat loudly and cast a stern glance at the guard.

            “Your _heart_ ,” he concluded defensively.

            “No doubt with the sweet looks they’ve been casting at each other all night, _uj_ cake seems bland by comparison,” the captain agreed.

            Satine felt her cheeks go a little hot at the guards’ teasing and glanced appreciatively at the adorable blush painted across Obi-Wan’s face as well. Even at the risk of further commentary, she couldn’t resist leaning close to press a kiss against his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his flushed skin against her lips. The guards’ chuckles were not too high a price to pay for their security, and though Obi-Wan had certainly proven himself an able bodyguard on countless occasions, there were times that she required his undivided attention.

            One of which was fast approaching, as the guards boarded their starfighters and she and Obi-Wan made their way to their shuttle. It would be a long journey back to Sundari at sublight speed, as the two habitable sister planets in the Mandalore system were at far points in their orbits and intrasystem hyperspace jumps were needlessly risky.

            Obi-Wan headed for the shuttle cockpit, but she wrapped her arms around him from behind, tugging him back into the passengers’ quarters. He stumbled back against the bulkhead, resting his hands lightly at her elbows while she nuzzled eager kisses along his neck and jaw.

            “At least let me set the autopilot,” he pleaded with a breathless laugh.

            “That’s probably for the best,” she agreed reluctantly.

            He started to draw away, and then he caught her glance, his eyes bright and his dimpled smile affectionate. Shaking his head a little, he stepped close again to cup her cheek in his hand and kiss her, soft, lingering, and tasting sweetly of familiar spices, until her knees were weak. He broke the kiss too soon, tearing himself away to go attend to the shuttle controls, and she sank down onto the soft couch to catch her breath. The shuttle lifted from the ground, and Satine caught a glimpse of the familiar constellations of the world where she was born through the viewport. Nothing about Kalevala had felt like home for a long time, but perhaps some lingering sense of nostalgia brought the tune of the old folksong, _Ruusaanyc Riduur_ , back into her mind. And this time, she didn’t think of being forced to dance to it with suitors she despised or enemies she feared, but choosing to dance with her own worthy partner. Their life together was like the dance, careful steps around unseen obstacles and the loving support of each other’s hands. There were words to the song, but she only recalled them in snatches – _return to my arms… together, we are home_. She was singing it softly, without words, by the time Obi-Wan returned to hers, and he joined her, sitting beside her on the couch and clasping their hands together in the particular attitude of the dance. She felt the vibration of his sweet, clear voice in his chest, his breath on her hair as he pulled her against him, resting his other hand at her waist.

            “I thought you didn’t like it,” he pointed out, kissing her temple as she finished the last phrase of music in a soft hum.

            “I changed my mind,” she declared, tugging him into a kiss, slow and deep, as the music replayed in her mind.

            _Together, we are home_.

 

 

(Mando'a translation notes)

[i] I put this together from “dala”/woman and “alor”/ruler to be something like “milady”, “queen”, etc.

[ii] I’m sure the grammar is a nightmare here, but I don’t know how to conjugate verbs in Mando’a. Literally “Your hired-spouse dance good”, but the speaker is very drunk, so…

[iii] Won’t find this one in the Mando’a dictionary either, smooshed together from related words as “possessing a pleasing posterior” more or less.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr on 6-3-19 (https://spectral-musette.tumblr.com/post/185344473669/the-worthy-partner)
> 
> The Mando’a is based on the dictionary at Mandoa.org, but the meanings of the words and phrases hopefully should be clear from the context. The notes above are included as intended translations in case I messed up, though.


End file.
